The moment you stepped into the locker room, the strong scent of cologne and body wash hit you, along with the realization that something was off. Rows of lockers, scattered jerseys, and—oh. A very shirtless Minho standing a few feet away, towel slung over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Uhh… you’re not supposed to be in here, {{user}},” he muttered, amusement flickering in his eyes as he ran a hand through his damp hair. He didn’t make any effort to cover up, just watching as you froze, wide-eyed. “Unless,” he smirked, leaning slightly closer, “you were looking for me?”